As Eliza knew she would, Madison followed, a few steps behind, climbing up into the passenger seat. ‘What happened to your face?’ she said.

She took a shaky breath. ‘Butch is . . . scary when he’s angry.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Madison. Her face was flushed. Her phone was in her hand, but she didn’t call the police.

Of course Madison wants to be there before anyone else, she wants to film the whole thing, thought Eliza.

It was hard to drive without her glasses. She squinted from the effort. She was so close to the end! The end of everything she’d set out to do.

‘Did Butch say anything about Bree?’ said Madison.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Eliza.

‘Detective Badenhorst said Bree had been dead for three days when we found her, but . . .’

‘But what?’ said Eliza.

‘She texted me, yesterday morning. She was about to do it. She was really going to kill herself. She told me what time she’d do it and everything! So I could organise the vigil.’

‘You’ve been in contact with the girls?’

‘Not really . . . Georgia was the one who had the phone. We all agreed she’d be the one who’d use it most wisely, the only one who wouldn’t get cold feet. When they found her body, I assumed the phone had been lost . . . but they must have switched the phone, because Bree texted me with it yesterday morning . . .’ She stomped her shoe in the footwell. ‘I don’t know where Jasmine and Cierra are.’

Eliza’s hands on the steering wheel were starting to ache from how tight she held them there. Suddenly all she could think about was killing Jasmine’s cat. Who knew cat blood could be so warm?

And why had she done it? It was stupid. The police would know it was cat’s blood. If anything, it’d direct suspicion away from Butch.

She was making mistakes. Like a stupid little girl. Making mistakes.

Soon. Soon it would all be over. Justice. And strength. Both would be hers.

Warm blood, and the feeling of Wren’s arm breaking in her hands.

I have permission to do what it takes!

The Landcruiser bumped along over the haunted bridge and through the outskirts of Limestone Creek, until oak trees and poplars gave way to the white gums and candlebarks and paddocks full of bracken fern, and above it all the stepped outline of the hazy blue Great Western Tiers. All of them were up there. Projection Bluff, Liffey Bluff, Drys Bluff, Billopp Bluff . . .

Eliza pulled off the main road and onto the bumpy four-wheel-drive track of a forestry road. She slowed right down, driving to the conditions, and rolled down the windows – the cussik-cussik of green rosellas, the harsh cry of a cockatoo.

‘Do you know where you’re going, Monica?’ said Madison, as the Landcruiser pitched from side to side. Doubt had crept into her voice.